


Walking in a Winter Wonderland (with a vampire)

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [14]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Blood Drinking, Christmas, Dreams, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Fluff, Frottage, Gender or Sex Swap, Hurt/Comfort, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21764587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Christmas angst, Christmas fluff, and Christmas smut in a genderswapped vampire/human Johnlock AU.Chapter 1.Christmas Angst.“Dreams are a wish your heart makes,” said John. “Bollocks,” said Sherlock.Chapter 2.Christmas Fluff.There were no winter breezes, thought John, as she waited to be rescued.Chapter 3.Christmas Escape.Cabin fever leads to Sherlock and John making love on Sherlock's grave.Chapter 4.Christmas Snow.John falls into an ornament.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/361097
Comments: 21
Kudos: 22
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge, Watson's Woes WAdvent 2019





	1. Christmas Angst

“Dreams are a wish your heart makes,” said John.

“Bollocks,” said Sherlock.

John stopped struggling with the braid of holly and ivy and pine on the mantelpiece.

“You don’t think dreams mean anything?”

“No, I don’t,” said Sherlock. She had been stretched out rather lazily on the sofa, but when John approached, she sat up. “Dreams don’t mean anything, special, portentous, or otherwise, John.”

What happened next surprised Sherlock, and Sherlock being Sherlock, and a vampire, wasn’t often surprised.

John collapsed into Sherlock’s arms, sobbing.

Sobbing! And very Victorian sobbing at that.

Big, wet tears. Weak, sorrowful moans. Choking noises.

It had been a very long time since the benefits of smelling salts had crossed Sherlock’s mind, but they did then.

“John?”

John had buried her face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

“I had a dream, Sherlock.”

“Nightmare?”

John shook her head and sniffed. “It wasn’t a bad dream.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and brushed her lips against John’s temple. “I beg to differ if it has you in this state.”

“The dream itself was lovely. Sweet. Sensual. Fun. But when I woke, I felt wretched. Physically ill.”

Sherlock frowned. “What happened in the dream?”

“That’s just it!” cried John. “I can’t remember! I try and I can’t remember!” She gripped Sherlock tightly. “The dream was nice. It is the feeling upon waking that is so poisonous. But you don’t think it means anything?”

“No,” said Sherlock, stroking John’s hair. “But it doesn’t have to mean anything to upset you.”

“I’ve had nightmares about Afghanistan, of course, but in those, I was afraid in the dream and I was still afraid when I woke, and I was always aware of at least some of the elements of the dream afterwards. In this case, it is the contrast that disturbs me as well as the total amnesia and my waking reaction to it. The way the dream felt, and the way I feel now. It’s difficult to put into words, but It makes me feel as if I cannot trust my own mind.”

“Bizarre. And disturbing.”

“Yes. Do vampires dream?”

“No,” scoffed Sherlock. “Can you imagine? There’s enough terror in our existence without adding a subconscious variety.”

John slumped more heavily against Sherlock, and Sherlock felt a new tide of wetness on her neck.

“Don’t cry, John. It’s just nerve synapsis firing, and your mind trying to make sense of it. And in this singular instance failing miserably at the job. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.”

John sniffed again and pulled away and accepted the handkerchief that Sherlock offered. “I don’t think I can bother anymore tonight with the Christmas decorations, Sherlock.”

“No more you should. You’re being frightfully early about everything. In my day, we didn’t do anything until Christmas Eve.”

“Your day?” teased John weakly before blowing her nose.

“It was about a hundred and thirty years ago,” conceded Sherlock, “but still…”

“Hullo!” called a voice from below.

“God, your sister,” groaned John, hiding her puffy, red face in the handkerchief. “I can’t bear her right now.”

“A sentiment that Mycroft has provoked in many throughout the ages,” remarked Sherlock dryly as John wrenched herself out of Sherlock’s embrace.

“I’m going to bed,” she declared.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” repeated Sherlock firmly. “And there’s no reason to believe it will happen again. Sleep well.”

John nodded and hurried toward the stairs just as Mycroft appeared in the threshold.

“Hello, John.”

“Mycroft.”

John disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

“Something’s upset her?” asked Mycroft.

“Astute observation. You are the smart one.”

“Living with you would upset anyone. Constantly.”

“It wasn’t me. She had a bad dream.”

“That’s unfortunate. Did she say what it was about?”

“She can’t remember.”

Mycroft sank her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels. “Poor thing. Well, that’s one affliction of which our current condition has absolved us,” she said with forced cheerfulness.

“Is it better to suffer nightmares or be the stuff of them?” mused Sherlock philosophically. “Who cares?” She turned abruptly. “So, what are you about, Mycroft?”

“I wanted to see what your plans were for Christmas. Perhaps we could spend it together. I see John is already full of Yuletide spirit.” She nodded to the coils of greenery and boxes of decorations, opened but not yet divested of their contents, scattered about the sitting room.

“Perhaps. I’ll broach the subject with John tomorrow. She’s gone to bed. She did mention having a traditional Christmas, including making ye ol’ Christmas pudding. She’s already purchased the ingredients.”

“Ooo!” cried Mycroft with unabashed glee.

“Yes,” huffed Sherlock with undisguised sarcasm. “Dessert.”

* * *

Sherlock strode through the heavily falling snow with her coat pulled tightly ‘round her thin frame and her scarf thrice wound ‘round her neck.

Only one residence was lit. Sherlock fell to a near-crawl and slithered her way to the ground beneath the great front window.

“More holly and ivy?”

“Can there be too much?”

“The tree looks lovely, my dear. As do the candles and all the decorations. This place has never seen such finery, not in a hundred years. It is a Christmas dream.”

“Will you do the honours, Mycroft?”

“Of course.”

“A little to the left. Oh, that’s perfect.”

“What a beautiful star it is. All your hard work as paid off, my dear.”

“I am doing the easy part. You’re doing all the cooking. It smells wonderful. I’m so hungry.”

“But the fire’s a bit low.”

“It’s snowing, Mycroft. A white Christmas. Could it be more perfect? Oh, what’s that?”

“Carolers somewhere.”

“I love Christmas carols! Do you need a hand in the kitchen?”

“I do. Come, my dear.”

Sherlock slunk around the side of the residence and under the gate.

“Look at this feast!”

“But it’s trifle warm.”

“It is, isn’t it? Oh. Oh. Yes.”

Sherlock lifted her head to see John’s jumper being drawn over her head and Mycroft’s hands covering John’s bare breasts.

“Good?”

“Yes.”

“More?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft’s hand unzipped John’s jeans. They spread the denim and pushed in down over John’s hips, revealing a thick bush of blonde hair.

Sherlock went to the back door and knocked three times and then entered.

“Sherlock!”

John stared at Sherlock, but Sherlock was staring at Mycroft. The two exchanged a single glance that spoke volumes. Then Sherlock extended a gloved hand and said gently,

“It’s time to go home, John.”

John’s lips were trembling. She looked from Sherlock to Mycroft, blankly.

“Good night, my dear,” said Mycroft softly.

John took Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock led her through the garden and the gate to the pavement.

As they passed by the front window, the lights inside went out.

For a long time, Sherlock and John walked in silence, side-by-side, holding hands.

Snow was still falling but much lighter than when Sherlock started on her journey.

“Sherlock, I am walking through London, naked, in the snow.”

“Yes.”

John giggled. “I’m not cold.”

“Good.”

“No one’s about.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“Ah. Are we walking back to Baker Street?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll take a long time.”

“Not as long as you think.”

Sherlock led John back to Baker Street and up the stairs to the flat and up more stairs to John’s bedroom. She tucked John in bed and brushed the snow from John’s hair.

“Sherlock?”

“You will only remember what is good for you to remember, John. Sleep well.”

* * *

It was just before dawn when John padded downstairs. Sherlock was studying a not by the light of a candle and was almost surprised. Almost.

“What’s got you so serious?” asked John sleepily.

“Mycroft’s not going to be spending Christmas with us after all. She’s going abroad. She sends her apologies.”

“Oh, no!” cried John with dismay.

Sherlock looked up sharply. “You’re disappointed?”

John frowned.

“Well, yeah, she was the one going on and on about a traditional Christmas with all the smells and bells, and I bought all that stuff for the pudding!”

“Well, Christmas pudding is traditionally supposed to steep. I suppose you could keep it until she returns.”

John nodded. “And I like the decorations myself,” she added cheerfully.

“How did you sleep?”

“Better. I had the craziest dream! You and I were walking through London, you were dressed as usual, and I was starkers! And it was snowing! You were right, Sherlock, a dream isn’t a wish your heart makes!”

 _It wasn’t your heart that was wishing, John_ , thought Sherlock, with a host of mixed emotions she did not want to examine too closely. She yawned and said with casual arrogance,

“I’m always right, John.”

Then Sherlock put the corner of the note to the candle flame. She watched it burn, and when the stiff paper was no more, she puffed lightly, and all the ashes flew like sooty snowflakes into an antique coal scuttle by the fireplace.

Sherlock passed by John, giving her arm a squeeze and her cheek a kiss, before heading down the hall.

“Sleep well, Sherlock,” called John.

“Thank you."


	2. Christmas Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock rescues John. They walk home in the snow. 
> 
> For MissDavisWrites' Advent challenge: Day 5: Wind.

There were no winter breezes, thought John, as she waited to be rescued. There were spring breezes, summer breezes, and even autumn breezes, but no winter breezes.

The winter wind was not gentle or refreshing or caressing.

It cut. It slapped.

It provoked shrieks and scowls and swearing.

John waited.

In darkness. In danger. In cold.

She waited, bound and hooded and gagged.

She waited, wrapped in a torn, wet jacket that was absolutely no protection for any winter wind that might come her way. But no winter wind would come her way in this forgotten corner of a forgotten warehouse.

But just when John was about to surrender hope and give herself over to unconsciousness, she heard it.

It was the sound of air being moved by an enormous pair of bat wings. And then there was the sound of shoes over a century old landing on the cold, hard floor of a forgotten warehouse.

The footsteps neared. An oath was sworn.

John was hauled to sitting.

The hood was removed. The gag was removed.

“You’re like a winter breeze,” mumbled John as she slumped against Sherlock.

“I let them off too easy,” said Sherlock as she freed John’s arms and legs. “I should’ve…”

“You didn’t kill them.”

“No. I just played a bit of bat-and-mouse until Lestrade arrived.”

“Good. It’s Christmas.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought, but…” Her hands were all over John.

“I’m all right,” said John. “Just a bit cold.”

“Bastards!”

It was a sensitive point with Sherlock. She did not like John being cold. She’d once explained that as she herself never felt it, cold was the one area where she was often negligent in her observations.

Sherlock helped John to her feet, muttering under her breath, “I should’ve drained them!”

“You wouldn’t have liked the taste.”

“True. They probably would’ve given me indigestion.”

John smiled.

Outside the warehouse, the winter wind howled. Suddenly, the warehouse door banged open.

“Bloody hell!” cried John, shivering. “This jacket is going to need serious laundering as well as mending.”

Sherlock took John’s hand as they made their way outside.

“Hello,” said John as a current of heat ran up her left arm. In an instant, John’s whole body was toasty warm despite the freezing temperatures and bitter wind. “You’re a walking hot water bottle.”

Sherlock smiled. “Most people would say I’m cold-blooded.”

“Most people are idiots,” remarked John.

Snow began to fall.

“I’m certain Lestrade will be ‘round in the morning to take your statement. Shall I spirit us home?” asked Sherlock.

“As long as I’m holding your hand, I can walk back to Baker Street. I like the snow. It’s pretty.”

Sherlock nodded. “All right. Walking in a winter wonderland.”

“With a vampire!” added John, swinging their joined arms.

“In the meadow, we can build an abominable snowman,” sang John. “And pretend that he is Yeti Brown! He’ll say, ‘Are you married?’ We’ll say, ‘No, sir, but you can curse us both when you’re in town!’

“You have a gift, John,” said Sherlock.

“Thank you,” said John. Then she looked at Sherlock. “I wasn’t worried. I knew you’d come.”

“Good. I was certain I would find you. And I wasn’t as worried about your wellbeing as I might have been. They didn’t seem clever or cruel enough to have done much harm to you. You mostly got in the way of their greed. But it was cold. And I’m told the wind makes cold worse.”

“In the winter,” agreed John. “Brrr!”

They reached Baker Street.

Sherlock helped John out of her wet clothes.

“I’m just going to put them in the bath tonight and sort them out in the morning,” said John, wrapping her bathrobe ‘round her.

“Tea?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes!”

Two cups of tea later, John was ready for bed.

“Will you…?”

“Will I what?” asked Sherlock.

“Will you be my hot water bottle tonight?”

Sherlock grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Later on, we’ll inquire about the dreams of a vampire!” sang John as she snuggled closer to Sherlock.

“We’ll face unafraid,” whispered Sherlock, “the plans that we’ve made, walking in a winter wonderland.”

John fell asleep, warm and snug, and dreamt of winter breezes.


	3. Christmas Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cabin fever leads to Sherlock and John making love on Sherlock's grave. Frottage. Non-graphic blood-drinking.
> 
> For MissDavisWrites' Advent Calendar: Day 19: Escape. And for Watson's Woes Open Day #2: Comfort.

Confinement meant nothing to a vampire.

Sherlock was simultaneously bound and unbindable. Most noticeably, she was forced by her nature to sleep in a coffin with six wooden sides enclosing her, but more importantly, she was bound to her undead existence. She could be killed, of course, but never by old age. So, in a few regards, she was caged, but in many other ways, compared to human beings, she wholly liberated. She could change her shape at will, for one, and, for another, the weather never bothered her. She could, quite literally, rise above it all, wind, rain, and snow.

For all these reasons, Sherlock was less sensitive than she might have been to the effect that a confinement of three days due to a wild winter storm was having on John.

Sherlock’s rude awakening to the concept of ‘cabin fever’ came on the evening of the fourth day.

She woke as usual, though a bit earlier due to the short winter days. Then she showered as usual. Though John was no longer squeamish about such things, Sherlock liked to remove all traces of coffin dust from her person before she greeted John.

While she washed, Sherlock smiled and even hummed to herself about the Christmas gift she’d selected for John: a new coat to replace the jacket that had been so soiled and damaged in their last case.

A new coat for John!

Very warm. Very flattering.

Dark wool, bright buttons, and with a collar that John could turn up and look very smart.

Sherlock wrapped herself in a dressing gown and sauntered down the hall, feeling very pleased with herself, indeed.

But then…no John.

One sniff told Sherlock that.

Where would John go? The snow was thick and deep outside. Was she taken?

Sherlock held concern at bay. Best not to theorise before facts.

She padded silently up the stairs and sniffed at John’s door.

No John.

She returned to the sitting room.

And found the note.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Please don’t be angry, but I was going a bit mad being cooped up in the flat. I’ve been thinking a lot about our conversation the other day, and I got the idea to go to Meiringen. I hope it doesn’t upset you. I just wanted to see it for myself. Don’t worry. I’ll be back for blood day and Christmas._

_John_

Sherlock sank down into her armchair.

Meiringen!

She remembered their conversation.

_“Is there a stone somewhere in the world with the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ carved in it?”_

_“Yes, it’s in a church graveyard in Meiringen, a village in Switzerland. The world believes I drowned at the falls of Reichenbach nearby. But, of course, there’s nothing buried there. The coffin’s down the hall. And the contents very much animated before you.”_

_“Do you ever visit it, your grave?”_

_“No.”_

_“Does anyone? Do you have descendants?”_

_“I doubt it that anyone has ever visited my grave. Mycroft and I were the last of our lines. Our families died before we did.”_

Sherlock went to the window and saw clearly the tracks John had made with her small rolling suitcase in the snow. She’d gone by taxi.

Sherlock returned to her armchair, tapping her lips with her fingertips thoughtfully.

John had been ‘going a bit mad.’

As Sherlock reviewed the past four days, evidence of John’s growing stress made itself apparent. Gestures of restlessness and noises of dissatisfaction and outburst of impatience followed by gloomy silence. Sherlock was a bit alarmed that she’d missed the signs.

And now her hen had flown the coop.

The metaphor was an apt one because while John didn’t lay eggs, she did provide the blood that Sherlock preferred to maintain her existence.

_I’ll be back for blood day and Christmas._

The order of events was chronological, but Sherlock liked to think it was priority, too. Sherlock saw that John got as much pleasure from feeding Sherlock as Sherlock did from feeding from her.

The sheer thought of it gave Sherlock a delicious shiver. Three days, seventy-two hours.

It was then that Sherlock remembered the coat.

John was out in that jacket!

That wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all.

Sherlock checked the clock on the mantelpiece and did some calculations.

* * *

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“You are perhaps the only human being in the world, John, to be nonplussed about meeting a vampire in a graveyard after dark.”

Without lifting her gaze from the stone or turning to meet Sherlock’s eyes, John said, “Why should I be afraid? It’s _my_ vampire.”

Snow was thick on the ground and falling hard.

John crouched and swept the stone with a gloved hand. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” said Sherlock.

“There wasn’t much to choose from in the way of flowers,” said John as she laid the small bouquet on the piled snow.

“Snowdrops and winter heather,” observed Sherlock over John’s shoulder. “Hope and luck, that’s not a bad combination.”

“The language of flowers. You are very Victorian, Sherlock.”

“True. But I am not the one who decided to brave a winter storm to visit a grave.”

John laughed. “I just got the notion, and it wouldn’t let go.”

“Your reaction to ‘cabin fever’ is interesting, to say the least. I’m sorry if I’ve been insensitive. I didn’t realise how badly you were suffering.”

“Oh, it’s all right. I’m glad you not upset at this. I was curious, and I didn’t like the thought of your stone being bare at Christmas.”

“I’m not upset at all, John. If you want to visit again sometime, just tell me. It’ll save the cost of airfare.”

John nodded and then she turned.

Sherlock gripped her by the arms. “You’re cold.”

“Yeah.” Then John smiled and shook her head. “I _was_ cold.”

She tilted her head up, and Sherlock kissed her.

They kept kissing as John wrapped her arms ‘round Sherlock. Then she hummed,

“You make me warm, Sherlock.”

It was the kind of praise that went straight to Sherlock’s unbeating heart. She kissed the side of John’s face as snowflakes fell in wet points on their skin. “We can go back to Baker Street. Or to your room at the inn.”

John answered by smashing her mouth against Sherlock’s and tightening her grip. When she pulled away, her voice was raw. “Call it ‘cabin fever,’ but would you mind drinking from me, here, now? Biting me?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but her mind and body responded very favourably to the request.

“I couldn’t possibly do that without,” Sherlock lowered her voice a seductive rumble, “bringing you to crisis, too.” She kissed John’s lips and poured warmer waves of heat into John’s body.

“If you must.”

And so Sherlock laid John down on her back, their bodies sinking deep in the snow, Sherlock’s name, carved in stone, looming above their heads.

“I think this is what they call ‘modern Gothic,’” said John.

“Very Mary Shelley,” agreed Sherlock.

“With a touch of Polidori,” added John as Sherlock lowered her fangs.

Sherlock parted John’s legs with her thigh and began to rub against John.

John moaned and arched up to meet Sherlock’s rocking. The movement lengthened and exposed her neck, but Sherlock waited until John was on the cusp of orgasm before piercing her skin.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

John’s blood was sweet, so very sweet, undiluted, rich, nourishing. There was no spirit, no food, no blood of any other living creature that compared. It satisfied Sherlock as nothing else did.

Sherlock drank deep as John shuddered through wave after wave of pleasure. Then she pulled back and licked the four slits in John’s neck, closing them.

She knew there was still blood on her mouth when John’s eyelids fluttered open.

Sherlock was distracted for a moment by the beauty of the snowflakes painting John’s eyelashes. Then she raised her head and caught sight of the bundle of winter heather and snowdrops, which was half-buried in snow.

“What luck to for your path and mine to have crossed, John, and what hope you’ve brought into my existence.”

“You’re gorgeous,” said John, her voice thick and slurred with want.

“Despite the blood?”

“Because of it. And despite it.” John reached a hand up and touched the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and made to push the trickle back into the smiling crease.

Sherlock licked her own lips, letting John see in her eyes just how much the gift of her blood gratified.

A choked half-groan escaped John’s lips. “I’m mad,” she cried.

“I’m just as mad,” Sherlock reassured.

“Fuck me again?”

“Until dawn if you wish.”

“Oh, God. You think someone will see us?”

“Doubtful that anyone would be foolish enough to be out in this storm, and we seem to be sinking into our own little hidden plot here.”

John giggled, then she stifled it. “It’s probably not proper to laugh on your grave.”

“Any less proper than being fucked on it? Or bled on it?” countered Sherlock good-naturedly.

“Mary Shelley wished she had my luck.”


	4. Christmas Snow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John falls into an ornament. 
> 
> For MissDavisWrites' 2019 Advent Calendar Day 21: Winter.

John trudged along, her boots crunching. She looked up and saw the dome, looking even more stately with its dusting of snow. The trees were thick with the stuff, and more was coming down, a steady stream of soft lace curtain.

John heard boot-crunching that was not her own.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“Hello, John.”

“I’m wearing my jacket,” said John proudly. “It’s very warm.”

“It’s very flattering, too.”

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“I can’t remember how I got here. Is this a dream?”

“More like a daydream.”

“I’m awake?”

“Yes, you’re lying in our Baker Street flat on the floor beneath one of the lowest boughs of the Christmas tree. From the bough hangs an ornament, a rather special ornament that is meant to be viewed from underneath. It’s a globe that rotates through various winter London scenes.”

“Ah, that explains the snow on St. Paul’s.”

“Yes.”

“And somehow I’ve fallen into it, I suppose ‘up into it’ if we’re being precise Like the scene with the snow globe in _Mary Poppins_.”

“Precisely. And you’ve brought me, or a part of me, with you for company.”

Sherlock offered John her arm. John took it. They marched around the cathedral as snow swirled about them.

John heard a song. Or maybe it was a poem being read aloud.

_Beneath the shadow of the stately dome,_

_while flurries danced to winter wind’s quick waltz,_

_I found in fingers twined in mine a home_

_as flakes fell fast in dips and rose in vaults._

_‘Twas not a soul about to spy our kiss_

_the thick white curtain hid us well from view;_

_a twirl of fate, a chance we dare not miss_

_to snatch romance amidst the winter dew._

_A frozen wonderland around us both,_

_but hearts beat warm and Great Paul rang out proud;_

_while fingers clasped swore solemn, stalwart oath,_

_pledged promises ‘twere never spoke aloud._

_Cathedral bells toll joy. Just hark the calls!_

_Of love beneath the shadow of St. Paul’s!_

Sherlock’s lips quirked in a smile.

“Was that me or you, Sherlock?”

“Oh, this is all you, John. I like it.”

Sherlock turned, and John kissed her lips.

Suddenly, the church bells began to toll. They tolled so violently that the very earth beneath John’s boots quaked.

“W-w-what on earth—?” stammered John, shouting to be heard over the din. “They’re much louder than I remember!”

Sherlock screamed back, cupping gloved hands ‘round John’s ear.

“You are under the tree! I am feeding! It’s blood night!”

“Oh!” John pulled back. She nodded as the penny dropped. “Orgasm?” she mouthed.

“Apparently!” replied Sherlock, throwing up her hands.

John frowned. “Am I stuck here?”

Sherlock shook her head. John smiled and gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign.

They resumed their march until the ringing subsided.

“The ornament is a bespoke creation,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah, I guessed as much. But I like it. I like walking with you in the snow.”

“You are the unexpected spring to my eternal winter, John.”

“Now who’s writing poetry?”

Sherlock smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
